


I'm not broken (I'm made for a mosaic)

by pawnofkings



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Blood and Injury, Descriptions of Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Neil Josten, Light Angst, M/M, i'm hemophobic and was fine writing it tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26477455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pawnofkings/pseuds/pawnofkings
Summary: “You could’ve come to me”, Matt says. “I was still in the dorm. I could’ve taken you.”Neil frowns. “Taken me where?”That seems to stop them in their tracks. Matt huffs a nervous laugh, says, “The ER?”--Neil is used to stitching up his own wounds. The others aren't as used to it.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 23
Kudos: 564





	I'm not broken (I'm made for a mosaic)

**Author's Note:**

> I made a detailed outline for this, and by 'detailed' I mean around 700 words of outline for a 2.5k-word fic. I should keep doing that, honestly.
> 
> In other news, my Andreil fic Google doc was approaching 100 pages and I had to split it up because it was lagging so badly. So now I've got a nice Drive folder (with sub-folders! Of which one is just 'plans' with like seven planned fics I haven't gotten around to writing, oops).

Neil doesn’t have much experience with cooking. While on the run, he and his mother had mostly gotten by on cup noodles, diner and fast food meals, and whatever can reasonably be stuffed inside a can. But he’s not on the run anymore, and a diverse and healthy diet is essential not only for his career but for his continued life. 

After refusing to see Bee for the seventh time someone suggested it he’d gone and decided that if the others were so concerned about his mental health, he’d find something therapy-adjacent to hopefully fill whatever void supposedly needed filling. He’d pulled up Google, typed in ‘therapeutic activities’ and scrolled down the list until he landed on something he thought he could stand.

Thus: cooking. And the thing is, it’s  _ working _ . He’s less anxious, more focused, and doesn’t skip meals nearly as often. Even Andrew seems to approve of his methods, for once, but that might just be because Neil keeps putting plates of dessert in front of him. Which had been the plan when he headed for the kitchen this morning, a new recipe bookmarked on his browser and ingredients eagerly awaiting his ministrations. With Andrew at a session with Bee ahead of practice and Nicky out with the upperclassmen on some shopping extravaganza, he’d thought it would be the perfect time to try something new.

Neil has gotten better at cooking since he started. He thinks, reasonably, that he’s been good at handling knives for a long while. And yet.

He startles at the sudden sting in his fingertip, other hand automatically releasing the knife. It clatters onto the workbench and narrowly avoids falling off the edge. Looking down, he frowns at the amount of blood that’s welling up; he knows it isn’t a good sign that he can see the inside of his own flesh. After checking that he hasn’t bled on the chocolate bar he was chopping up (and maybe he shouldn’t have been trying to read ahead in the recipe while chopping something so solid), he quickly moves to rinse his finger in the sink. Thing is, he knows wounds. This one isn’t too big, but it will need stitches. At least it isn’t his dominant hand.

Neil sighs and wraps a paper towel several times around his finger, sighing again when it immediately bleeds through, suffusing the white with red. “This is so stupid”, he mutters. Well, there’s nothing to be done about that now. His body moves almost of its own accord, muscle memory deeply ingrained into his very bones, hand popping open Kevin’s liquor cabinet and grabbing at a bottle of vodka that he takes one sip of before he reaches the living room table, plucking a sewing needle out of Nicky’s new tailoring project that he’s been working tirelessly on for an hour every evening (lucky that, because their first-aid kit is woefully understocked, Neil should get on that).  _ Bedazzled jeans and sliced-up fingers _ , Neil thinks wryly.  _ Whatever you need to sew _ .

His blood is starting to leak out of the temporary bandage, running down his hand in long lines. Thankfully, he reaches the bathroom before long. One-handed, he puts the vodka down, starts rummaging through the bathroom cabinets, and returns with a pack of dental floss. He bites off a piece with his teeth, then pours vodka over both that and the needle. Threading the needle is harder (which Nicky has complained loudly about on several occasions) and requires use of whatever fingers still feel like being helpful on his left hand, but his hands are deft and dexterous after a lifetime of practice, and then all that’s left to do is close the wound. (After pouring vodka on that, too. Neil hasn’t missed the sting. But the tug of a needle and thread pulling on his skin is somehow familiar in a more positive sense. He decides not to unpack that.)

Three stitches later, he’s wrapping his fingertip in gauze and wiping down the crime scene-reminiscent sink, heading back to the kitchen to do the same there. After a quick glance at the microwave clock he groans; he doesn’t have nearly enough time to finish up, now, and he packs away the ingredients perhaps a bit too roughly, rife with frustration. Whatever. He’ll just head to the court early and practice some drills until the others show up.

It’s still empty when he gets there, and he unfortunately isn’t surprised that none of the freshmen have taken the opportunity to practice more. After putting on his gear, being careful with the gloves - the sting in his finger has turned into more of an ache, but nothing worrisome - he heads for the court and practices rebounds until the others join him.

During a break, he jogs across court to converse with Andrew, who appears deep in thought. “I was gonna make a dessert for you, but it didn’t work out.”

Andrew looks entirely uninterested. “Unfortunate.”

“It had more sugar than flour and two types of chocolate”, Neil says, sighing dramatically. “It’s sad that you won’t get to experience it.”

In response to his teasing, Andrew reaches out and tugs briefly on Neil’s jersey. “Not too late.”

That’s Andrew-speak for ‘I would like to try that, so be kind and make it again’. Neil huffs a laugh, grins, and returns to half-court in time for Dan’s rallying.

After practice, the freshmen head for the doors and leave, and Neil follows the sound of Dan’s laughter to the lounge, joining Andrew on one of the couches, Kevin on Andrew’s right side.

“Neil, Neil!” Nicky shouts happily from the opposite couch, clamoring for his attention. Neil looks at him and puts on an interested expression, allowing Nicky to talk on and on about this project idea he saw on Pinterest where you embroider flowers onto a denim jacket which he’s ‘totally’ going to do next after the ‘Party Pants’ (capital letters required) are done. Neil is more amused by Nicky’s energy than by what he’s actually talking about, but he huffs a laugh anyway. While Nicky continues prattling on, he reaches up to push back a stray curl, still damp from the shower, but it stops Nicky in his tracks. “So I was thinking I could do orange and white flowers, right? But what flowers are orange? Like, some tulips, I guess, but - what happened to your finger?”

“Mm?” Neil asks. “Oh - I cut myself while cooking.”

Andrew, who previously seemed perfectly content just staring emptily into the void, occasionally acknowledging Renee, turns to look at him, following the path of his arm down to his bandaged finger. “You don’t have to take off every bandage”, Neil tells him, thinking back to their reunion in Baltimore, but Andrew just rolls his eyes while tugging at his hand anyway, gingerly unwrapping the gauze. It’s an uncomfortable angle, since Neil’s left arm is being pulled across his chest and into Andrew’s grip.

The sight of the stitches seems to stop Andrew in his tracks, and his grip tightens almost imperceptibly on Neil’s hand. By now, they’ve won the attention of most of the Foxes, and Allison pipes up with “Are those stitches?”

“Yeah”, Neil says.

“You could’ve come to me”, Matt says. “I was still in the dorm. I could’ve taken you.”

Neil frowns. “Taken me where?”

That seems to stop them in their tracks. Matt huffs a nervous laugh, says, “The ER?”

Oh. 

“Are you saying you did that yourself?” Allison asks. Her eyebrows are raised high on her forehead.

“Dental floss”, Andrew remarks blankly. 

“You sewed your finger closed with  _ dental floss _ ?” Kevin questions, sounding way too surprised. Neil looks around the room, wishes he hadn’t. They’re all staring at him.

“It’s just three stitches…” He makes a grab for the bandages but Andrew holds them out of his reach. He’s admittedly a little pissed. Andrew always feels the need to expose all his wounds for everyone to see - or, well, the physical ones. And Neil is getting tired of being a spectacle.

Nicky stares, wide-eyed. “You sewed your own finger closed!”

The tiredness turns into irritation in a snap. The other Foxes - well, save Renee and Andrew - are gawking at him, looking at him like a circus performance gone awry. The anger burns hot in his stomach, heating his limbs and making his head hurt. “Is that really surprising to you?” he snaps at Nicky, voice unlike his own.

“I would’ve fainted”, Nicky admits. As if Nicky’s experiences are the baseline, as if anything Nicky thinks is weird is objectively weird.

“Well, I’ve had plenty of practice. Stab wounds, bullet wounds, all that”, Neil grits out. “In case you forgot.”

“I…”

He’s on his feet before he realizes, hand pulled out of Andrew’s and clutched to his chest. He tries to make sure his stitches aren’t visible. “No. I’m done with this. Can you all just stop treating me like I’m broken? I don’t need you crowding around me in concern whenever I do fucking  _ anything _ .” 

He storms away, the door flying open. By the time the sound of it shutting rings out, he’s already halfway across the parking lot.

So is Andrew.

“Neil”, he says, in his trademark neutral voice. Somehow, his monotone feels like a balm on Neil’s heated skin. He doesn’t stop, but he does slow down. “Neil. Let’s go home.”

He stops in his tracks and raises a hand to rub aggressively at his face. Only when Andrew tugs at his sleeve does he realize he’s doing it with his injured hand. Whatever. It doesn’t hurt more than it did before. “I don’t wanna be around them right now”, he admits, hating the vulnerable note to his voice.

“Get in the car, Neil”, Andrew instructs, and Neil lets himself be guided to the Maserati.

He’s relieved when they leave the parking lot without anyone else joining them. “Can I have my bandages back?” he asks. He tries to keep his finger lifted in the air so as to not touch anything with it, unwilling to get an infection. 

“They were dirty. I threw them away.”

Neil sighs, leaning his head against the window. He wishes he could stay that way, feels tired now that the anger has worn off, but it rattles against his temple and makes his head hurt. Resigned, he turns his head to look at Andrew. “They treat me like a little kid, Andrew.”

“They worry about you.” Neil would’ve scoffed if Andrew hadn’t just said something at least vaguely positive about the Foxes. It’s unusual so he doesn’t feel like dismissing it. “They have a different concept of what ‘fine’ is - most people do.”

“Yeah, whatever”, Neil mutters, looking back out the window. “This was my life for a decade. I just - I don’t like them constantly reminding me that I’m not normal, that nothing about me is.”

Andrew spares him a brief glance before looking back at the road. “I wouldn’t care for you if you were.”

Somehow, that’s exactly what Neil needed to hear.

*

At seven PM, Neil doesn’t know what to do. The weekly Foxes (not the freshmen, ‘not until they learn to behave’ according to Dan) movie night is not an event to be taken lightly, but he doesn’t know if he feels up to going.

He spent the remainder of the afternoon finishing the dessert he’d been trying for, Andrew supervising from his perch on the dishwasher and refusing to let Neil near any knives or anything requiring full dexterity. (He’d also treated helping Neil like a chore, but it didn’t stop Neil from smiling for a full half hour.) Now, with Andrew spoon-deep into the monstrous concoction (which has received a stamp of approval, which is surely more pleasing than it ought to be), Neil is leaning against the counter and thinking deeply while also not thinking at all. It’s the strain of thinking intensely, on top of the pearlescent-white blankness and absolute silence of an uncertain mind.

“Stop looking like that, it’s off-putting”, Andrew says, pointing at Neil’s face with his spoon. “We’ll go, and we’ll leave if you need to. I can kill them if they make it awkward.”

Neil chuckles. “I won’t be taking you up on that last part, but yeah, okay.”

So they go. It’s a bit tense, a bit too quiet before the first movie starts, but the others dive into their excessive commentary with fervor once it does. Neil allows himself to relax against the front of the couch, seated comfortably between Andrew’s legs, an occasional tug of his hair keeping him focused.

After the first movie, no one makes a move to start the next one. They continue to face forward, though, and Neil’s just about to ask when Matt speaks up.

“I’ve overdosed three times.”

Before Neil can ask, Allison says, “My parents kicked me out for a few weeks when I was sixteen. I didn’t want to tell my friends, so I stole people’s wallets and used the money for food and motel rooms.”

That’s when Neil catches on. “You don’t have to…”

“I’ve taken someone’s life”, Renee says quietly. Aaron takes a swig from his drink, otherwise remaining silent.

“Sometimes my father would hit me and I’d use makeup to hide it. I couldn’t blend it well enough to make it look like it wasn’t there, so I also wore mascara and lip gloss to pretend I just liked makeup.” Nicky is looking stubbornly at the screen, and doesn’t look away even when Neil turns to stare at him.

“I was too afraid to leave”, Kevin says quietly, “even after I already had.” 

“I was underage when I was a dancer. I didn’t let anyone know that”, Dan finishes.

Andrew just presses a hand to the back of his neck.

“If you’re broken, we’re all broken”, Allison concludes. 

“We’re sorry we made you feel that way”, Renee adds.

Neil takes a long look around at them, at his Foxes. At people who’ve been hurt not in the same but in similar ways, all banding together to show that it doesn’t mean they’re broken. That he’s not alone.

A mosaic.

“I’m so sorry, Neil, I was just worried about you, I didn’t mean to make it into a whole spectacle”, Nicky says to break the solemn silence.

Neil knew a lot of this before, if not these details specifically then at least their context, but it helps to know that his Foxes will always understand him in at least a small way. The reminder soothes. “Thank you”, he says quietly.

Dan nods. “Now”, she says, “I think we should watch Legally Blonde.”

“Clueless!” Nicky insists.

“ _ ¿Por qué no los dos _ ?” Allison’s got a smirk on her face. 

They start the next movie, but Neil’s not paying much attention. He’s got Andrew’s hands in his hair and eight amazing people by his side, and that’s enough to think about. To feel.

He thinks he can feel the void become just a slight bit smaller.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are my blood; comments are my heart. People who leave comments must be expert doctors with how good they are at keeping me going.
> 
> I had to immediately delete and reupload this because the word count literally just said 'Words: ' and uh,, sketchy ngl


End file.
